Costumes
by LizBee
Summary: Russell ventures into the Berlin nightlife to deliver an ultimatum to a spy who is rapidly outliving her usefulness.


**Title**: Costumes  
**Author**: LizBee  
**Summary**: Russell ventures into a Berlin nightclub with a message for a spy who is rapidly outliving her usefulness; both women get rather more than they bargained for.  
**Rated**: PG-13  
**Warnings**: Lesbians. Communists. Gratuitous Dietrich.  
**Fandom**: Mary Russell (Sherlock Holmes)  
**Spoilers**: Cosmetic spoiler for _The Game_.  
**Disclaimer**: Russell and Donleavy are the property of Laurie R. King. Holmes is public domain, although it's probably only fair to name-check Arthur Conan Doyle.  
**Notes**: So Branwyn and I both started writing Berlin nightclub fics at the same time, and it's only by luck and simplicity of plot that mine was finished first. Hers is awesome, even in its nascent state. This fandom needs more Berlin nightclubs.

**Costumes**  
By LizBee

_Berlin, 1926_

It was a dingy little apartment, whose expensive furnishings couldn't disguise the flaking paint or cracked windows. The most striking things in the room were the paintings, modernist, abstract and hideous. Holmes didn't even deign to glance at them more than once, but I couldn't quite drag my eyes away from the only portrait: a woman, blonde, cracked into little pieces and smeared with red paint, so that the canvas itself seemed to be bleeding. Her distorted face was a mixture of ecstasy and pain, and I couldn't even begin to imagine the depth of the love and hatred that had been poured into this work.

The only sound was the soft metallic scrape of Holmes's picks in the lock, and our breathing, and the bustle on the streets below. The box opened with a creak that seemed unbearably loud in the silence.

Holmes rifled through the contents. "Interesting," he said and handed the packet to me. It contained a series of photographs, amateurish and damning. And two smaller packages, and an envelope holding a key and a number.

I paused a moment to examine the photographs, distasteful and near-pornographic as they were. The modernist painting was not a good likeness in the strictest sense of the word, but I recognised the subject. By that stage, I knew her face almost as well as my own.

Holmes locked the box and returned it to its hiding place. No marks remained behind us to betray our presence; even the dust remained undisturbed. We left without a word.

"Well, Russell," Holmes said as we returned to the main streets, where our car and driver awaited us, "I shall pay a visit to the bank. You-"

"I know. I should start getting ready."

We parted at the bank; he brushed my hand with his and watched as the car pulled away. Returning to the hotel, I opened the smaller packages, examined them, and replaced them, swallowing my unhappy sigh.

It was some hours before he returned to the hotel, long after the bank had closed.

"I hope you didn't have to resort to robbery," I said, examining my reflection in the mirror.

"Not at all, but I did have to go to dinner with the manager. Here." He caught my left hand in his and put the cufflinks in their place, and surveyed me, frowning.

"What?" I asked.

"Too masculine."

"Is that not the point?"

"In this case, no." He released my hair from its pins and brushed it until it framed my features. I suspected that he still regretted my dramatic haircut two years earlier, but if I had to have a bob, he would at least make use of it. "More make-up," he ordered. "Red lips and dramatic eyes. This is a theatrical costume, Russell."

I decided, again, not to ask where my husband had come to know so much about certain subcultures. But when we were finished, I looked extraordinary. And nothing at all like the demure wife of a visiting Englishman.

"Oh, and Russ?"

"Yes?"

"Take your revolver."

"I have my knives," I said.

"Still. Be careful."

I smiled. "I promise not to get myself murdered or abducted by gangsters. Nor will I use cocaine, or get drunk on cocktails or leave you for an actress."

He almost laughed, but the concern lingered in his eyes, and I took my revolver.

The driver did a double take when he saw my clothing, and another when I named my destination, but he maintained a professional silence. I sat back and watched the streets of Berlin slide by. Here, in the seedier parts of town, the prostitutes stood about openly, men and women alike, arrayed in a startling variety of clothing. Their painted faces followed the car as it passed; their make-up was running in the rain.

The club was said to be exclusive, if not private, but the man on the door waved me through with a smile. Entering, I was struck by a wave of cigarette smoke, and the heat of a crowd of bodies. In the dim light, it was almost impossible to distinguish faces. I drew myself to my full height, feeling conspicuous in the white suit, and moved forward. I moved with a supercilious confidence and allowed the crowd to part for me.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I began to make out individuals. Here was a musician I'd met at a formal dinner party; there was the husband of the very young English teacher I met at the university. A voice called my name: Gerde Kerner, Communist, artist and hostess of a thousand soirees.

"You are full of surprises," was the first thing she said to me. She was a short, plump woman with wicked green eyes and a wide mouth. She wrote tracts preaching distribution of wealth and free love; she had an open marriage and three long-suffering children, now grown. Two were businessmen; the other was an accountant. She took my hand and kissed it, saying, "I told Klaus, I said, 'Fraulein Russell, she has a few secrets behind her face."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Don't play the coquette, it's beneath you. Does your husband know? No, of course he does, you couldn't keep anything from that man. Brilliant, of course, shame about his politics."

I murmured something to the effect that one had to make allowances for the older generation.

"It explains a lot, really I mean, one hears things; a traditional wife wouldn't suit him, but"

She was clearly on the verge of asking some impertinent questions about Holmes's preferences. I headed her off by saying, "Will Ilse Hauptmann be in tonight?"

"Ilse? I suppose so, although she can be unpredictable."

"I saw her paintings yesterday. I very much want to meet her."

"Very talented girl. Dreadful politics."

I couldn't disagree.

A hand brushed along the back of my neck. It must have been the edgy atmosphere that had me on my feet in an instant, looking into the heavily made-up face of a man I belatedly recognised as a young Viennese aristocrat.

"You must give me the name of your tailor," he said. "What a remarkable suit. House of Knize, yes? White suits you. Very striking."

Indeed; most of the patrons here wore dark colours, and of the women in masculine dress, none could compete with me for quality or expense. I permitted him to buy me a drink and introduced him to Gerde, who looked impressed in spite of her politics. I had to admit that Holmes and I developed an unusually wide circle of acquaintances on this visit. I lit a cigarette and listened to the aristocrat charm the Communist. We were joined by a young actress and her husband, she surrounded by admirers of both genders, he apparently content to sit back and watch her bloom. They looked more like brother and sister than husband and wife, beautiful reflections of one another. Several women attempted to flirt with me. I remained enigmatic, and wondered if anyone else saw the self-consciousness in this attempt at decadence.

Or perhaps I was simply cynical.

Ilse Hauptmann made her entrance shortly after midnight. I was in a good position to watch her circulate through the room, her pale hair catching the light as she moved. She caught my eye as she moved, and I raised my glass in a toast. A hint of a smile touched her lips, and I knew I had her.

It was another hour before she joined us, but she barely took her eyes off me in that time. Gerde made the introductions, eyes glowing with curiosity, and then contrived to have the rest of the group move elsewhere. Even outside her own home, she was the perfect hostess.

"It's curious," said Ilse, carefully, "but I rather feel I've met you before."

"I've been doing some research at the university."

"I see."

Up close, I could see the lines of strain in her face. I remembered the canvas, the red paint. Her hands were restless.

"Would you care to dance?" I said.

"Somehow, I suspect that's not an offer you make to many women."

"I don't usually make the offer at all." I drained my glass recklessly, grateful for the heavy meal I'd eaten back at the hotel. "Dance with me. Then take me to one of those charming dark corners at the back of the room, so we can talk privately."

"Talk. It's all you English want to do."

I took her hand and led her out onto the floor.

"If anyone should ask tomorrow," I said, "we danced, we negotiated a seduction, we left."

"If anyone is impertinent enough to ask, I won't even give them an answer."

Despite myself, I rather liked her, but her discretion came far too late.

I could feel the eyes on us as we danced, although the floor was crowded and there were more arresting couples. But we were both tall, blonde and androgynous, and we moved together well. I smiled to myself, thinking that this was not what Mrs Hudson had in mind when she taught me to dance.

Ilse said, "I suppose you haven't been sent to assassinate me, then."

There was a revolver in my inner pocket and a knife holstered in my boot, but I said, "No."

According to reports, Ilse had extraordinary aim and a strong stomach. I wondered if she was armed, but she let me draw her closer, and I felt no sign of a weapon. Her hands strayed to my hips, and she laughed.

"The sacrifices you make for your Empire."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Leaving home and husband to play the Sapphic in Berlin. Was there no other way you could meet me?"

"Without drawing attention to both of us?"

"We are attracting a great deal of attention, Fraulein."

"And who would suspect anything but the obvious?"

"You tie yourself up in knots with your justifications."

The song came to an end, and I allowed myself to be led away from the dance floor and the crowd and into a quieter, darker area. Figures rustled in the shadows, engaging in transactions that had little to do with base coin. Ilse led me to the very deepest corner, an alcove filled with curtains and props left from old performances. It was uncomfortably small and profoundly intimate, smelling faintly of sex, sweat and opium.

Very quietly I leaned in close and whispered, "The British government has sent me to tell you that your services will no longer be required." Her eyes widened, and I could see her wondering if she would survive the night. "I think this will come as a relief, somewhat, since it has been a year since you performed any useful activity for us."

"The war is over, Fraulein Russell. You have won, you have humiliated us, you have left us with nothing. What more shall I give?"

I wanted to say that a woman who had betrayed her Fatherland in wartime had little right to any pretence of patriotism now, but I restrained myself. Instead I said, "Your current political activities are of some interest, but your usefulness has expired. Josephine Steinberg has betrayed you."

Her eyes widened, but her voice was even as she said, "She betrayed me in many ways. Little Jewish whore."

I didn't flinch.

"She found the notes you so foolishly kept. Copied all of them. And now she is trying to sell them."

"Stupid little bitch." I didn't know whether she meant Josephine or herself.

"She'll be arrested tonight. Soon, I expect." Holmes would be out there now, in the rain on unfamiliar streets. "It will be kept quiet, of course. The diplomats will take care of everything. But you're in a rather awkward position. An obsolete spy, an outspoken university lecturer, an underrated painter"

"I don't paint anymore." She moved slightly, and her hair brushed against my mouth. I stepped back. "I haven't touched a canvas for six months."

"Pity. You're better than Josephine."

"I know." I couldn't see her face, but I knew she was smiling. "She only had one good painting in her."

"I've seen it. It's a good likeness."

"It was supposed to be abstract."

"It is. But it's a good likeness anyway. Your work is far more consistent, though. Until the last months, anyway."

"You've been in my house." She sounded almost resigned.

"There's one other thing," I said. "Some photographs" We were close enough that I could sense her whole body stiffen. "Not very good, but the faces are clear enough. Who was the other girl?"

"A friend of Josephine's. She posed for some of my paintings Josephine intended them as art, but she was a poor photographer"

"Artistic or not, I think the university would baulk at having one of their lecturers seen in such - curious circumstances. Not to mention your political friends. You take enough of a risk coming here so openly."

"Berlin is a cosmopolitan city. I know it's different for you English."

"Cosmopolitanism does not make one immune to scandal, I'm afraid."

"Perhaps not. Although you seem untouchable. There were at least two English journalists here tonight, and any number of people who knew who you are. Aren't you afraid of blackmail?"

"Not particularly. I'm not a public figure, and the people who matter know what I do, and why. I may be considered eccentric, but not scandalous."

"I'm surprised. I'd have thought your husband's reputation would make you even more vulnerable. Or do you protect each other? Do you even make love at all? I suppose you play at being his catamite. I hear you make a convincing enough boy-"

She froze as I took a step forward. We were almost of the same height, but she seemed to look up into my eyes as I said, "You presume a great deal-"

"You come in here in your elaborate costume, play at being a lesbian, and then have the nerve to threaten and patronise me, because you have the security of knowing that everything you do is justified, because you do it for your Empire-"

"Ten years ago, you would have sold Germany to the Empire-"

"I was young and stupid, and-"

"-And now you praise Mussolini's _Fascisti_ and court the Right by day, and then dress up and come here at night-"

"You stand there in that suit your husband paid for, spinning stories and ruining lives-"

"I hope you're not defending Josephine Steinberg."

"I am thinking of myself-"

"That's rather the crux of the matter, isn't it?" I snapped. "Everything else is meaningless."

"Not entirely," she said. "I still believe you're a hypocrite."

"And you're a highly incompetent traitor, but I'm not here for name-calling."

She laughed, although I couldn't see the joke. Then she took my face in her hands, and kissed me.

I hesitated for a moment, and then kissed her back. She tasted of cigarette smoke and cocktails, and I was momentarily struck by how _different_ this was, how her lipstick slid against mine while her hands explored my body. My experience in these matters was limited, and for the first time, I understood the allure of the unfamiliar.

She let me go, and I caught my breath and reminded myself that I was not attracted to women.

"You kiss like you mean it," she said.

"I'm a very good actress."

She laughed. Her arms were still around me. "The photographs who has the negatives?"

"Ah," I said distantly, as if her lips were not against my neck, nuzzling my earlobe and the sensitive skin beneath my jaw, "that would be me."

Ilse stopped and looked up to face me.

"And? What do you want from me?"

I had been pondering the matter since I'd found the negatives that afternoon. "I want you to leave Germany," I said. Her eyes widened.

"And what about my job at the university? How shall I live?"

"Simply, I'd imagine. But I'm sure you'll get by. Don't go to Italy; you may admire the _Fascisti_, but I doubt you'll want to live under them."

"Where," her smile was bitter, "do you want me?"

_Right where I can see you_, I almost answered. Instead I said, slowly, "Paris would suit you well, I think."

"That's rather close to home, don't you think?"

"Don't sound so hopeful," I breathed. "I don't like you that much." But I kissed her again, feeling again the warm soft pull of the forbidden. Traitor and failure that she was, there was something about her that drew me in. Those enormous canvases in her home, ragged paintings of death and guilt and errors she would never be able to fix, a stark contrast to the ruthless naiveté of her politics and her brittle, magnetic social persona.

I kissed the tips of her fingers quickly and said, "Go to your bank tomorrow afternoon and withdraw the balance of your account."

"I don't have-"

"I'll see that you have money."

"And what will you take in return?"

"Stay away from England." Her neck under my lips, her pulse beating against my mouth

"Is that all?" she whispered.

I straightened, and looked her in the eye. "_I_ need your discretion. _You_ need to cultivate better taste in lovers." I stepped back and adjusted my jacket, straightened my tie. "The money will be in the bank tomorrow. I suppose you can stay in Germany and give it to the National Socialists if you want, but your next English visitor may be less understanding of your situation." I raked a hand through my hair and wondered how badly my make-up was smeared. "I doubt we'll meet again. I can't say I'm altogether sorry about that."

I wanted to say more, but there were no words. Instead I turned and walked away, evading her outstretched hand and worried eyes.

"Wait," she snapped.

I turned back.

"You should sit for me one day. I think I'd enjoy painting you."

For a moment, I was tempted. Just a moment.

"I think not," I said. "I don't think I'd care for your interpretation."

"You'd be surprised."

"Possibly."

I turned away before I could change my mind.

Out on the floor, I caught a glimpse of another familiar face in the crowd: a British journalist who specialised in cheap scandal. He raised his glass to me with a leer. I ignored him, just as I ignored Gerde and everyone else who tried to speak to me. I swept away in silence, untouchable.

Driving back to the hotel, I saw a solitary figure in a worn overcoat and shabby hat walking in the same direction. He raised his hat as we passed, and hurried to catch up as the car pulled over.

"Good hunting, Holmes?" I asked.

"Successful. The diplomats will have plenty to occupy then, but Germany will let us have our way. There'd be a lot of trouble if this came out."

"Yes. I suppose there would be."

He gave me a sidelong look. "And you?" he asked.

"Success. Although I doubt I have any reputation left to speak of here."

"You'd be amazed at what you can get away with, given a small degree of notoriety and a few wagging tongues. The night is still young. We could get into any number of new scandals before dawn."

I smiled and leaned my head on his shoulder.

"No, Holmes, thank you. Much as I appreciate the offer, I have some business to attend to tomorrow, and I'd rather not appear _too_ bohemian."

He laughed and took my hand, and we returned to the hotel in a comfortable silence.

Some months later, I received a small parcel at my Oxford house. The postmark was French; the handwriting on the address was German. There was no letter, simply a plain charcoal sketch: my face, created in heavy lines and shadows. I studied it for a long time, the parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes. Sensuality warred with hesitation; it was almost a stranger's face, and beautiful.

I threw it in the fire and watched pensively as the flames consumed the paper.

_end_

Thank you for reading; feedback is welcomed.


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